Recovery
by Magery
Summary: "Her fingers linger on the black king's crown for a long moment as she returns it to its square." We all know how it ends. This is Kallen, after.


Kallen sits at the bar, lounging on one of the stools with a lazy, almost arrogant grace she's never been able to truly hide. There's an empty glass in front of her; she doesn't seem to notice when the bartender refills it without prompting. She's never been a particular fan of alcohol. The fact she's drinking now has nothing to do with pleasure.

Even though she's been focusing on the television up in the corner, her hand finds the drink with ease. Kallen gulps it down, ignoring the way it burns her throat like fire. She has never been a stranger to pain. It is the eleventh shot she's downed since she arrived, and it will also be the last. There is a significance to that number, after all.

"We come to you live from the fifth anniversary of the Demon's Death," says Millicent Ashford, Milly to her friends, her face staring out from the television's screen. For such a bubbly, vivacious woman, she looks almost reserved. "If you're just tuning in, you're right on time to hear Zero's annual speech."

Whatever Milly was about to say next is lost as the screen blacks out. The bartender drops the remote on the table, and Kallen shifts in her seat to face her.

"I was watching that, y'know," she says mildly. Kallen is a quiet drunk; it goes against everything else she is as a person, but she has never been as simple as she appears.

The bartender cocks an eyebrow. It is a movement as elegant as the rest of her.

"I don't think you really care what Zero has to say, Kallen."

To an outside observer, that statement would have made no sense. It was addressed to Kallen Kozuki-Stadtfeld – the Crimson Lotus, the Black Knight's Ace, Captain of the Zero Squad. The list goes on. She is famous for many things, most of them great, but above all for being Zero's right hand.

Of course, an outside observer would have no idea that the Zero whose speech they are talking about is not the same one Kallen served. That was, after all, the point of the Zero Requiem. But Kallen knows. And so does the immortal who calls herself C.C. – even if she's currently masquerading as Shinichiro Tamaki's cousin, filling in for him at his bar while he's sick.

"It has nothing to do with want, and you know it." There is no anger in Kallen's voice. No grief. But her words still hang in the air for longer than they should.

"How very noble of you," C.C. says, not quite smirking. "I'm sure he appreciates your sacrifice."

There is no doubt between the two of them as to who she is referring to.

"Stop." For a command, Kallen's voice is not particularly strong. "Just give me today. Let me pretend it matters."

C.C. shrugs, but relents. "As you wish."

There's a knock on the door, and Kallen looks over as it opens. When she sees who is entering, she sighs. The pizza delivery boy meets her eyes, and she can see the shock that overcomes him. It's not often that you meet an international hero, after all, and especially not in a modest bar in the downtown of Tokyo. He probably expected her to be with the rest of the honoured guests at the celebration.

There are very few things Kallen celebrates nowadays. None of them will ever be associated with this day. She returns her attention to the drinks lining the wall behind the bar as C.C. pays for her pizza. The boy doesn't recognise her, not like he did Kallen. Not many people do. It's better that way.

C.C. does not offer Kallen a slice, but she wasn't expecting her to.

"I miss him," C.C. says. "You have no idea how convenient it was not needing to access my own money in order to buy pizza. Pretending to be my previous identity's daughter to keep the accounts open got tiring after the second century."

Kallen does not reply. What is there to say?

For a while, they sit in silence, broken only by the sounds of C.C.'s chewing. Despite her earlier protest, Kallen makes no effort to have the television turned back on. Instead, she leans one elbow on the bar, holding her chin in her hand. The other fiddles with the key around her neck; even C.C.'s not sure if Kallen knows she's doing it.

It's a deceptively simple thing, that key. It looks like a bloodstained feather, and it's small enough to conceal in the palm of a hand. To most, seeing it wouldn't mean anything; it might as well be a stylised USB.

To those who recognise it, though, it is something else entirely. It is the key to the Guren; the Nishiki, then the Flight-Enabled version, and finally the S.E.I.T.E.N Eight Elements. Knightmares that, in Kallen's hands, have changed the world. Oh, the credit is not hers alone – but she is still the greatest living devicer in history. After all, Suzaku Kururugi is dead, and Zero was certainly never better than his Queen.

None of that has anything to do with why Kallen wears it around her neck, or why she touches it when her smile dims and her eyes grow distant. No – that key is the second-greatest gift she has ever been given. The first, of course, is the world she lives in now; the world her brother dreamed of.

It is no coincidence that both of them were given to her by the same man.

Kallen's cheeks do not wet with tears, and she does not break down into noiseless sobs. It has been a long time since she was that weak. She has always lived with her emotions just beneath her skin, but they have never been the softer kind. Instead, she grips the key just hard enough that it creaks beneath her fingers, and lets it go.

Abruptly, Kallen thrusts the stool back and stands. She is surprisingly steady on her feet for how much she's drunk.

"I'll see you round, C.C.," she says. "Stay out of trouble."

C.C. laughs. "Goodbye, Kallen."

Kallen lifts a hand in farewell as she leaves, but does not look back. It is not in her nature.

* * *

A few hours later, she walks into a sprawling graveyard close to Ashford Academy. It is relatively new; opened mostly for those lost in the Black Rebellion. She meanders through it, occasionally pausing to read the names of the few classmates she lost in the chaos back then. There are Japanese and Britannian alike buried here. Some of the names are of those she has fought alongside.

She comes to this particular graveyard every year on this day. The media's explanation is that she is visiting fallen comrades. It is close enough to the truth that Kallen does not even have to lie when she is asked about it. She has never been very good at telling them, anyway.

At the end of her long and winding path, there is an unmarked grave. There are plenty of others similarly unadorned in this place, but this one is special. If the world knew it existed, they would see it torn down in a heartbeat. This is the grave of Lelouch – not Lamperouge, not vi Britannia. Just Lelouch.

There is no body beneath this earth, no name on the headstone, not even a bunch of flowers resting against it. What is the point of remembering a man who did his best to convince the world he never existed? To truly his honour his sacrifice is to pretend he never made it; to act as if there had never been anything else but a demon.

Kallen's acting was never particularly convincing.

She kneels before the grave, her seiza performed with the easy flexibility of youth. She does not speak – she just reaches out a hand to lay it on the cool, rough stone. It is a position she holds until the sun descends below the horizon and her knees grow stiff.

When she rises and leaves, she does not look back.

* * *

A few weeks later, it is the start of a new year at the International Tokyo Military Academy. The world's premier Knightmare school, it takes only the best of the best from around the globe, regardless of age or affiliation. Guest lecturers have included every current Knight of the Round, the great General Tohdoh, and even Li Xingke.

Of course, that is not the only reason that even qualifying to attend can land a soldier a promotion or two. Staff rotate in and out as their own militaries can spare them, but there is one permanent teacher – Kallen Kozuki-Stadtfeld, the Crimson Lotus. She oversees both the standard courses and the advanced streams for those who are so talented they excel even among their peers; it is a quiet joy of hers to see that her skills have more uses than destruction. Even if that use is doing her best to turn others into the sorts of pilots she once made her name killing.

Kallen is twenty-three years old. She finished fighting her war when she was eighteen. But her talents in a Knightmare are not something that can be truly understood. An ordinary Knightmare pilot becomes an ace by either taking out five enemy Knightmares, or by achieving a score of 80% or higher on a simulation test. At the International Tokyo Military Academy, or ITMA, a student cannot graduate without a minimum simulator grade of 85%.

Over two years of warfare, Kallen consistently killed more Britannian aces per battle than the rest of the Black Knights combined. She is the only person on record to fight Suzaku Kururugi one-on-one and _not lose._ At the beginning of every year at ITMA, she sorts new students into their respective streams by how well they perform against her.

She does not use the Guren. She does not need to. The standing record for a student is a minute and fourteen seconds – the standing record for _anyone_ is five minutes even. It belongs to Li Xingke. To some of the veterans she teaches, Kallen is barely no longer a child – but she is the one who makes her students look like children.

Kallen steps up to the carved oak lectern in front of her, casting her gaze out over the assembly. She recognises almost everyone sitting in their chairs, even most of the new students. She helps judge who makes it and who doesn't, after all, and their applications all include photographs. The whispering stops, and she wonders, as she always does, if this is what it felt like to him. There is something a little intoxicating about this attention; about knowing how the crowd will hang on to her every word.

"Welcome to ITMA," she says. "Congratulations to those of you who have made it here for the first time, and to those who have persevered to come back for another year. I won't waste your time by explaining how privileged you are to be here, or how hard you must work to stay. If you didn't understand, you wouldn't have made it in the first place.

"The Academy rewards ability. That is how you earned your place, and it is how you will keep it. Dedicate yourselves to the art we will teach you, and you will succeed. Because piloting a Knightmare _is_ an art. I see some of you snicker. You will note that none of you have experienced a year at the Academy yet. Look around at your classmates. Your seniors. Do they look like they are laughing?"

It is a serious speech, but Kallen is a serious teacher. She will banter with her students, joke with them, but not about this. Piloting a Knightmare is what has defined her ever since she first stepped into her resistance cell's red Glasgow. It was never a job. It was a duty. And it is her duty to this new world to make sure that her students understand their own.

"You know who I am. You know what I've done. If you're one of our returning students, you've also heard a few variations on this speech before. I give a similar one every year. Hell, I might have said that last year too. But my message is always the same: when you step into a Knightmare, when you have the skill to use it in the way few others can, you have a responsibility.

"If your comrades fall, you catch them. If they struggle to overcome, you lift them up. If you are all that is between them and oblivion, you _hold_. Some of the bravest men I never met were the Britannian aces who would stand between me and their subordinates just to buy them a few more seconds to escape. Suzaku Kururugi was a monster, but even _he_ understood: look up the stories that surround his European campaigns.

"If there is one thing I'd like you to learn throughout your years at the Academy, it's that. One Knightmare in the right hands, at the right place, at the right time, can change a battle – I know. I've done it. When you have power, it must be used the right way. We've all seen the consequences of what happens when it isn't."

She is, of course, referring to Emperor Charles. To Schneizel and the Damocles. To the excesses of the Chinese Eunuchs. That is not the association anyone will draw – but it's the same message regardless. Kallen has never been very good at speeches, but she spent two years of her life walking a step behind someone who _was_. They say imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Kallen hopes, wherever he is, that it doesn't stroke his ego too much.

Then, she smiles. It is sharp and brilliant, and some in the audience blink at the way it changes her face. Kallen has always been beautiful, but there is something about the way her cheeks stretch and her eyes glimmer that makes you want to keep her smiling forever.

"Now, of course, I move on to the part of this speech you're probably _actually_ interested in. The teaching roster for this year at the Academy. We'll be seeing a few returning guests, as well as two new faces. I would tell you to respect them as you respect me, but most of them outrank me quite significantly.

"Some of you might remember him from two years ago, but Empress Nunnally has kindly loaned us Lord Weinberg, the Knight of Three, to be our aerial combat specialist instructor for another year. He will be joined by Princess Cornelia for small unit tactics, with Sir Guilford as her assistant.

"Empress Lihua and the Black Knights have released General Li Xingke to teach you advanced skirmishing for the first semester; I will take over for the second. And finally, making her first appearance at the Academy is Anya Alstreim, former Knight of Six. She will be teaching you heavy combat, assisted by Jeremiah Gottwald."

That last name sends a shock of gasps throughout the assembly. Kallen thought it might. There is a subtle pleasure in surprising your audience, she has found, especially when they react so obviously.

"I see you've heard of him. I could tell you a lot of things about Jeremiah. I could say he was the first person I ever fought in a Knightmare, back before we even _were_ the Black Knights. That he was the first pilot I ever defeated with the Guren Nishiki. That he is the most loyal person I have ever known.

"But none of that is important. He is here because Anya asked him to be, and because he knows more about heavy Knightmare units and how they fight than any other instructor at this Academy. That is the extent of his relevance to you."

She pauses to let her words sink in.

"Now that's out of the way, I think it's time for the introductory lunch. Enjoy the break while you can, cadets. You'll miss it when it's gone."

With that, she turns and leaves the dais. All she needs is a flaring cape, and her dramatic exit would be complete. He has rubbed off on her a little more than she's sometimes comfortable admitting.

* * *

Later in the semester, the door to Kallen's office opens, and a student walks in. He is one of her youngest, barely older than she was when she first met Zero. This is the first time she has interacted with him on an individual level, and given the nature of this meeting, it could very well be the last. He sits down in the chair on the other side of her desk with a thud; the motion is as ill-tempered as his expression.

"This is your third infraction, Michael," she begins without preamble. They both know why he is here. "All of them for fighting. You know the rules. You know the consequences. Explain yourself."

"You wouldn't care anyway," he says. "You'll just kick me out even faster."

"I'm not going to judge you without hearing your reasons, cadet. I've made that mistake one too many times to do it again. I make no promises that it will change anything, but I _will_ listen."

There is a sincerity in her words that Michael probably doesn't understand. How could he? But he can hear it, and something about the way she speaks loosens his guard, just a little.

"Ichirou and Sallam were insulting Emperor Lelouch. They do it all the time. Everyone does. And I'm sick of it. I can ignore it most of the time, but sometimes I wish they'd just _shut up_. So I made them."

The satisfaction in his final words is almost vicious – or, at least, it is until he seems to remember who he's speaking to. He has addressed his words—his almost-heretical words—to the Crimson Lotus. The woman whose legend was born fighting against Britannia, who was _there_ for the battle that almost decided the fate of the world. Zero's most loyal subordinate. There is only one person to whom it would have been more suicidal to say something like that, and he is dealing with an insurrection in Libya on behalf of the United Federation of Nations.

But Kallen does not speak. She just looks at him, like she's waiting for something. And she is. The world despises the Demon Emperor. To hear someone speak well of him… there is a story behind it. And it is a story Kallen desperately wants to know. Maybe Michael senses her curiosity, or maybe he just wants to fill the uncomfortable silence, because he starts to talk again.

"I have a sister, right? She's only a year younger than I am. Anna had just turned thirteen when Emperor Lelouch came to power. I hadn't seen her in six months back then; a Britannian Duke had demanded her from my family as part of a debt we owed him. Which we didn't, but it's not like anyone cared. We were just Numbers. He'd taken her from us, and I didn't think I'd see her again. I'd heard the rumours about him.

"Then Emperor Lelouch came to power, and he abolished the nobility and the Areas. The Duke was arrested two days later. I got my sister back. It took her a year to tell us what happened while she was in that house. It took me three to stop wanting to stab the next former noble I saw once she finished.

"So I don't care what else Emperor Lelouch did. I don't care if the rest of the world hates him. I don't even care if _you_ do. He saved my sister. And that's enough for me."

Once he finishes, Kallen is silent for a few moments longer. Her eyes drift over Michael's hair before returning to his face. Close-cropped the way most military recruits style theirs, it is as bright and orange as the dawn. Kallen imagines a girl with hair just like his, with the same thin cheekbones and wide, expressive eyes. She would have looked a lot like Shirley.

"Do you play?" she asks, gesturing to the chessboard that rests on her desk. It is old and worn, but the pieces are still recognisable. The black side faces Kallen. It was a gift from Nunnally, but it was not always hers.

"What?"

"I'm sure you do," she says, answering her own question. "At least well enough to know the rules, if you're a fan of his. Shall we?"

She pushes the board toward him, so it's close enough for the both of them to reach the pieces. Michael still looks confused, but it would take a greater man than he to resist the quiet strength in Kallen's voice. It is quite clear she had not exactly been _asking_.

They make a couple of moves each before she speaks again.

"I've never been very good at chess," Kallen says. "It was always more Lelouch's thing."

"You knew him?" That is not something the general public is aware of. To most of them, Lelouch vi Britannia appeared from nowhere; he only existed for the few short months it took him to conquer the world and die to Zero. For Kallen to address him by _name_ implies a familiarity that Michael could not have seen coming. Especially with the way her voice lingers on the syllables that make it up.

She laughs. It is surprisingly free.

"If there is one thing I'm sure of, it's that I never truly did. But that's beside the point. I don't hate him, Michael. I did, once, but not anymore." Kallen shifts her bishop to defend her knight, and continues. "I'm glad your sister was saved. Lelouch would have been, too."

It is a generous view of the man. Most would have assumed Kallen subscribed to the school that if there'd been a puppy on the road, the Demon Emperor would have ordered his driver to change lanes in order to run it over. She has more reasons to despise him than most.

"Thank you," Michael says. He still looks a little off-balance, as if he's not quite sure what's going on. "Where did you first meet him?"

"Nowhere important," she says with a smile. It is small, like a secret. "But we're not here to talk about me. I've heard your explanation, cadet. I understand where you're coming from. But you have to do better than that. You have to _be_ better than that."

Kallen moves her queen forward, and it is only then Michael notices she's checkmated him.

"Those insults are part of the price for the peaceful world we live in, cadet. They help us remember why we must do everything we can to ensure there is never another Lelouch again. It doesn't matter how undeserved you think they might be. You'll hear them your whole life. Better to learn to deal with them sooner rather than later."

Every word Kallen speaks is truth. Just not the truth Michael probably believes it is. She will never let there be another Lelouch, because she would not wish that fate on any other person. She has long since gotten used to ignoring the insults besmirching his name when they're thrown around every day in casual conversation, because to react to them is to deny everything he died for. Enduring them is just another part of her penance.

"I'd get going, if I were you," she says, glancing at the clock. "Your next class starts in fifteen minutes."

"…you aren't going to kick me out?"

"For loyalty?" Kallen shakes her head. "Not today. But if I see you in here again, you should know the choice will no longer be mine."

She resets the chessboard a piece at a time, handling each one with the sort of gentle reverence another woman might use for her wedding ring. Michael appears to take the dismissal for what it is, and he turns to leave.

At the doorway, he stops.

"Where did you get that chess set, Lady Kozuki?" It is not an official title, not since Emperor Lelouch abolished the nobility, but Michael is not the first to use it, and he will by no means be the last. "It's beautiful."

"It belonged to a friend," she says, her eyes cutting to meet his. They are as deep and blue as the ocean. "I lost him in the war."

Lying is not Kallen's strength. It is helpful, then, that she has had so many examples about how the truth can be used to deceive far more easily. She looks away from Michael, back to the chessboard. The only piece that remains to be moved back is the black king.

Michael leaves before Kallen replaces it. Her fingers linger on its crown for a long moment as she returns it to its square.

* * *

This is Kallen Kozuki-Stadtfeld, five years later.

She does not burn as brightly as she once did. In truth, she probably never will again. She has no reason to, now; no inspiration, no catalyst. All she has is memory. It is not quite enough.

But neither is she broken. She has always been enduring. There is more to her than lost love or a loyalty all the stronger for how many times it has been tested.

Perhaps the best way to put it is that she is healing.

She is not okay. Not yet. Not wholly.

But she will be.

* * *

 **Hello, friends. Been a while, hasn't it? A few days over two years, actually, since I last published something for Code Geass that I actually wrote. Do you remember me? Because I remember you. This is where I started writing fanfiction, after all.**

 **I've written character pieces before, for various characters in various fandoms. I've even written one for Lelouch (sort of). But I've never written one for Kallen. Not until now. I genuinely enjoyed it, too; I got reminded of all the reasons I fell in love with the series and its characters in the first place.**

 **This story might be terrible. It might be boring. I can't tell. I wrote it mostly for myself, because I've been experiencing _feelings_ recently, and we can't have that. So I had to get them all out. But I hope you enjoy it anyway.**

 **EDIT: Given the first two reviews were asking me if I was okay, I'm touched by your concerns but I must have sounded a lot more depressed that I actually am. I'm fine, I promise. Just nostalgic.**


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